The Last Crusade: A Harry Cassidy Novel

by Henry Hack

  “A lot of the partners were also at meetings out of the office, or out of town. What time did the attack occur?”

  “About a quarter to five.”

  “A lot of the staff leaves at four.”

  “At least some good news for a change.”

  “Harry, tell me exactly what’s going on.”

  “They’re coming after us—personally.”

  “Who?”

  “Bin Yousef and OBL-911. They haven’t taken credit yet, but I know they’re behind this. Jerry Campora’s death was not a case of bad luck—and they almost got you.”

  All the members of the team were listening as Harry spoke to Susan, and when he continued, he looked directly over to them. “Susan, I want you out of there. Take Lizzy and head to Peggy’s place in Pennsylvania and…”

  “But, Harry,” she interrupted. “I have to see what happened at my firm, and Lizzy is only a week away from final exams.”

  “I understand, but listen to me. I want you two out of danger right now. Pack your stuff and get a hotel room for us and Lizzy—not in Manhattan. Go across the river to Jersey. And as soon as Lizzy finishes her exams, I want her to go back to Pennsylvania immediately.”

  “And you, Harry?”

  “Call me when you settle into the hotel. As soon as I can I’ll pack up and join you there. I have to run. I love you, Susan. Stay safe. Be careful.”

  Harry turned to the team and said, “You heard that conversation. I want you all to do likewise, right away. Call your families and make sure everyone is safe and accounted for. Then make arrangements to move them, and yourselves. This is not a suggestion; this is a direct order, unless you can convince me the death of Jerry Campora and the attempt on Susan were coincidences.”

  Pop said, “All good investigators learn early in their careers there are no coincidences. I’ll call Vera right now.”

  “And I’ll call Walt down in DC,” Harry said. “We should get him back here right away.”

  19

  This time the death toll from the biological attacks surpassed the total of that awful Sepember day many years ago. The dozen targets across the nation became buildings of death for almost 9,000 people. The headlines screamed, and political pressure on the administration and the law enforcement community reached heights which they had never experienced before. The population exodus from Manhattan and the other cities targeted in the attack reduced them to ghost towns. Commerce crashed as the financial stock exchanges slowed to a crawl. People refused to travel to their offices from the suburbs, and the subways were running at less than ten percent capacity. Still, no one claimed responsibility for the attacks, but bin Yousef was re-thinking his position. “I’m afraid, Fasiym, this last attack may have been too successful.”

  “Too successful, my leader?”

  “Yes,” he said with an evil chuckle. “The three dirty nuclear bombs we planned to use may not be necessary. There may not be enough people going through the train stations to make them worthwhile.”

  “Do we go on the air soon?”

  “Yes. Let us prepare our message now, but we shall wait several more days. Perhaps the panic will subside and the commuters will return. We can afford to be patient a bit longer. After all, we waited ten years for this day, and I do so want to explode those bombs.”

  Walt Kobak had arrived back from Washington, and after assuring the safety of his family, briefed the team on what he had learned. “Bin Yousef and OBL-911 are definitely behind the attacks. Most of the scientists were cooperative. They are not jihadists, but just did the rehabilitation and repackaging of the WMD’s for the money thrown at them, and from fear of death if they did not cooperate. The nerve toxin and viral agent used in the attacks have antidotes, but the poisons work so fast they cannot be utilized. The scientists estimate that the dozen members of OBL-911 and the Last Crusade, who are carrying out the attacks here, have used less than two percent of those chemical and biological agents they smuggled in with them. Now for the bad news.”

  “What the hell could be worse than that?” John asked.

  “They also brought in three dirty bombs.”

  “Nuclear bombs?” Nick asked.

  “Yes and no. The technical term for them is radiological dispersal devices. They use a conventional explosive, such as dynamite or C-4, mixed in with radioactive material. When exploded in a crowded area, hundreds die from the blast, but many thousands will die later from the radiation. The site of the explosion will be uninhabitable for years.”

  “Do we know who these Last Crusade guys are?” Pop asked.

  “Not all of them. The scientists weren’t privy to all the players and plans, but we do know this much. There are at least four of them in New York, and two of them are none other than Khalid al-Habib bin Yousef himself, and his trusty sidekick, Fasiym ali Hassan.”

  “Bin Yousef here?” Harry asked. “Exactly where is that son-of-a-bitch?”

  “Ah, the $64,000 question. The Syrians rounded up should be arriving in Israel shortly to be interviewed by our good friend Avram Hivkind. Perhaps they’ll get that information for us.”

  “Bin Yousef must know we’re on to him by now,” Pop said.

  “Why hasn’t OBL-911 claimed responsibility?” Nick said.

  “They want to detonate their dirty bombs,” Walt said. “They want us to know all the weapons available to them. We feel it’s going to be a one-shot deal this time—one demand—and if that demand is not met, the attacks will continue until it is met.”

  “And that demand will be the same as always?” John asked.

  “We believe it will,” Walt said. “Unconditional withdrawal of all support to Israel, and unconditional withdrawal of all American presence from Islamic lands.”

  When bin Yousef received the telephone call from Mounir at two a.m., he knew he was not calling with good news. “My great leader, I have just received some distressing information about our location.”

  “What has happened, Mounir?”

  “Perhaps we should not speak on the phone, but rather in person?”

  “Of course, I will send you a text message shortly.”

  At three a.m., bin Yousef, ali Hassan, Hamid and Mounir sat in a rear booth of an all-night diner in Fort Lee, New Jersey, conversing in low voices. Mounir got right to the point. “A couple of hours ago I received a phone call from one of my jihad warriors in Syria, one who fortunately escaped the dastardly attack.”

  “Attack?” Fasiym asked.

  “An armed attack at the cave where we stored our weapons, and which was carried out by hundreds of Syrian and American soldiers.”

  “And the results of that attack?” bin Yousef asked.

  “It seems, O great one, all of the scientists, and most of our jihadists have been captured.”

  “We are in great danger now,” Fasiym said, wringing his hands.

  “Calm down,” bin Yousef said. “Although the scientists will most likely talk when pressure is applied to them, their knowledge of our whereabouts is negligible.”

  “But what about the jihadists?” ali Hassan persisted. “If the Israelis…”

  “Do not worry,” Hamid said. “Our warriors will never betray our cause. They will gladly die martyrs for Allah before they utter one word.”

  “This news, while bad on its face, is not of great importance,” bin Yousef said. “Our total victory is at hand. We will win with the weapons now in our possession here in America. But to be on the safe side, we’ll move up our timetable. Mounir, I will prepare a message for you to transmit to our friends in the Arab satellite television stations. We strike soon.”

  Fasiym ali Hassan was silent on the ride back to the apartment in Westchester. He did not share his leader’s confidence in their safety, or in his belief total victory was just around the corner. And he certainly did not share Hamid’s certainty the captured jihadists would never betray them. After all they had done so in the past, but maybe no one but himself had a memory of that disaster. Bin Yous
ef, sensing his trusted lieutenant’s misgivings with the situation, smiled and said, “Have faith, Fasiym, it’s almost over. The end is near.”

  “Yes, my leader,” he said, but wondered just whose end was near. He had to plan something to make certain it was not his.

  Susan had chosen a hotel in New Jersey just over the river in West New York. It was a two-bedroom suite with a large sitting area. After a light dinner of soup and tuna sandwiches, Susan, Harry and Lizzy sat glumly in front of the TV set watching the Fox News Channel. “Shouldn’t you be studying, young lady?” Harry asked.

  “Probably Dad, but it’s Friday night and my first final isn’t until Monday afternoon. I’ve got all weekend to study, but right now I don’t feel much like doing anything.”

  Harry smiled and put his arm around her. He said, “I know what you mean, honey. I feel the same way.”

  Suddenly the announcer said, “We have a breaking story. Fox news has monitored, and recorded, a satellite broadcast that has just appeared on three Arabian TV stations. We will play it for you now.”

  A grainy picture appeared of the head and torso of a man. His face was covered with a black cloth wound around his head exposing only his eyes. He was holding an automatic weapon diagonally across his chest. He said, in fairly good English, “We, the members of the Last Crusade, have willingly joined forces with al-Qaida and its mighty arm of OBL-911. We have accepted the leadership of the great one, Khalid al-Habib bin Yousef, who has planned and directed the recent attacks against the great Satan known as America. The attacks will continue, and the body count will increase, if our demands are not met. They are the same as stated ten years ago—complete withdrawal of all forms of support to the heathen state of Israel, and complete withdrawal of all American troops, businesses, residents and visitors from the holy states of Islam. Our great leader has beneficently granted you three days to comply. If there is no movement on your part by noon, New York time, on Tuesday, May 9, the attacks will resume at times and places of his choosing. America, you have already lost many thousands of your citizens for a worthless cause. We have supplies on hand to kill millions of you with gases and poisons in agonizingly slow ways. Demand that your government act now. Your leaders are not dying holed up in their political fortresses, but you and your families are dying for them, and for Israel. Rise up and make your voices heard before it is too late.”

  If the weekend seemed to drag by, Monday, May 8, was absolute torture. At noon, with just twenty-four hours to go, Avram Hivkind had not yet come through with the information of bin Yousef’s whereabouts. Two members of the Last Crusade, of the twenty-eight they had in custody, had cracked, but only divulged the names and locations of three of their members—the ones in Atlanta, Philadelphia and Boston. The Task Force teams decided not to act against them for fear of tipping their hand and causing bin Yousef to flee.

  The pressure from the press and public was relentless. Over ninety percent of those sending e-mails to the papers and their elected representatives were in favor of acceding to bin Yousef’s demands. And a lot of their messages threatened not to wait until the next election, but to take them out right now, with bullets and bombs. America was truly on the brink of chaos.

  Avram called again at four that afternoon with the names and locations of three more jihadists—those in Los Angeles, San Francisco and Chicago. The key players in New York and Washington remained hidden within the minds of those who had pledged never to reveal their names or locations. They had convinced themselves no matter how they were tortured and killed by the Israelis, Allah awaited them with open arms and eternal happiness.

  Around the clock surveillance was put in place on the six identified jihadists, and the New York team waited for the critical piece of information that would send them into action. When eight o’clock arrived with no further word from Israel, they rolled out the cots and mattresses and prepared to bunk in for the night. Sixteen hours remained before bin Yousef would strike again.

  President Theodore Morgan had twice gone on national television, the night after each attack. He and his advisers had made the decision, as he had voiced before—America would never cave in to the terrorist’s demands. On Monday night, the news stations carried the report from the White House that President Morgan would address the nation at eleven the next morning, one hour before bin Yousef’s deadline. “You know what I’m going to say,” he told his top aides and heads of the FBI, CIA and Homeland Security. “We will not cave in to bin Yousef’s demands. You guys don’t have much more time to catch him and his cronies before they strike again. One million citizens could be dead in a couple of days. Their lives are in your hands now.”

  No additional information had come from Hivkind’s group throughout that restless night. The team members gathered in front of the television to watch the President’s speech, as did bin Yousef and ali Hassan in their Westchester apartment.

  “I am confident,” bin Yousef said, “Morgan will start to come around to prevent further attacks. He will not capitulate entirely, but I am certain he will do something. He cannot risk over a million lives lost. The political fallout would be too great.”

  “And if he does give us some concessions, my leader, will we stop our attacks?”

  “That depends on the level of concessions. If I deem them insufficient, perhaps one dirty bomb exploded in Penn Station may induce further ones.”

  Fasiym ali Hassan did not share bin Yousef’s confidence. After all, he reasoned, even if they exhausted their supplies and managed to kill one or two million infidels, there would still be over three hundred million remaining. And then what? The cave with the remaining weapons was no longer available. But he smiled, and nodded in agreement with bin Yousef, as the image of a grim-faced President Morgan appeared on the screen.

  My fellow Americans, I am speaking with you to let you know that I, the leaders of both political parties, all the branches of our armed services and all our fine law enforcement agencies are of the same mind, and have unanimously reached the same conclusion. We will not now, or ever, capitulate in any fashion to the demands of the terrorists. We will hunt down and eliminate Khalid bin Yousef and his followers. We will destroy al-Qaida and OBL-911, once and for all.

  Be vigilant in your daily activities, but do not be cowed into submission by these despicable sub-humans. Go to work and school, and show them their heinous actions cannot destroy this great nation. We must stand together and defeat this evil completely. We will prevail. May God bless us all, and may he particularly bless and protect our anit-terrorist law enforcement groups as they battle and conquer this abominable evil.

  As the regular programming returned, Pop said, “I think he meant us.”

  Never before in their long acquaintance had Fasyim ali Hassan seen such an enraged bin Yousef. He glanced nervously at him as the President was speaking, and saw the rage rapidly envelop him. His eyes widened and his clean-shaven olive complexion turned crimson. His hands turned pale as they gripped the arms of his chair, and his back straightened into a rigid pole. He leaped out of the chair before the president finished his last sentence shouting, “Infidel! I will destroy you and your heathen nation!”

  Bin Yousef stalked around the room shouting invectives for a full five minutes before he started to calm down. “My great leader, please,” Fasiym said. “I fear your anger, though justified, will harm you. Please sit down and I will make you some tea. Please do not drive yourself into a heart attack.”

  He gently took bin Yousef by the arm and guided him back to a soft chair. Slowly, bin Yousef’s breathing and color began to return to normal. Ali Hassan went into the kitchen to prepare the tea. Ten minutes later, when he was halfway through his second cup, bin Yousef turned to him and said, “I have the beginnings of a plan, a new plan for our final attack against this great Satan. This may well be our last crusade and we will have victory, or we will be with Allah in paradise.”

  The realization of the situation, while not apparent to bin Yousef�
��it would never be apparent to him—hit Fasiym ali Hassan like a load of wet cement. The United States of America could never be beaten into submission. Just as he had feared, they were willing to accept the loss of a million, or more, of their people and still they would exist as before. There were not enough poison gases and dirty bombs in OBL-911’s arsenal, or in the world’s arsenal, to bring them to their knees in surrender. Bin Yousef’s plan would most certainly fail. Fasiym ali Hassan was not yet 60 years old, and he was not quite ready to meet Allah. It was time to act on his plan—if he could do so in time.

  “Fasiym,” said a now calm bin Yousef, “contact Mounir, Hamid, Aziz and Idris and arrange a meeting for the six of us as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, my great leader. When will we strike again?”

  “Perhaps tonight, and also tomorrow morning, if things work out.”

  Noon had come and gone without incident. “What do you think will happen now?” Nick asked.

  “I think they will attack again as promised,” Harry said, “but we may have some breathing room. I think bin Yousef thought the President was going to budge, and he wasn’t fully prepared to strike at the deadline. But he will do so eventually—of that I’m certain.”

  “Let’s call Avram Hivkind,” John said. “We need a break, and we need it damn soon.”

  Avram’s news was not disappointing—it was crushing. “We exhausted our bag of tricks, and no more of them have cracked.”

  “Are you sure you did everything?”

  “John, we lined up ten of them, covered the first one in line with a bloody pigskin, and then shot him to death. We then did the same to the guy at the other end. The eight in the middle still refused to talk.”

  “Keep trying, Avram,” Harry said. “Right now you guys are all we have. Kill a few more if you have to.”

  “We’ll do our best. We know what’s at stake.”

  They hunkered down and watched TV, and waited. At six o’clock the phone rang and Harry answered. It was Kevin Longman from Los Angeles. “Our two Syrians, one here and the one in San Francisco, are on the move,” he said. “Looks like they’re heading to the airports.”